


Shackles

by NotEvenCloseToStraight



Category: Hannibal (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Did I make That Ship Name Up?, Dreams and Nightmares, Drunk Tony Stark, Foreshadowing, Gaslighting, M/M, Manipulation, Murderiron, Obadiah Stane Is The Worst, Obsessed Hannibal Lecter, Pre Iron Man 1, Pre-Relationship, Therapy, Tony Angst, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-19 03:46:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29744496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotEvenCloseToStraight/pseuds/NotEvenCloseToStraight
Summary: What if Obadiah Stane took a pre-IM1 Tony Stark to therapy and their doctor was one Hannibal Lecter?*******Tony Stark only said what he wanted to say when he wanted to say it. Weeks of therapy with the young billionaire had shown Hannibal that even the most leading questions were dead ends if Tony didn’t want to share, that not even Obadiah Stane’s  uncomfortably overbearing influence could force the brunette to speak his mind.But waiting, allowing Tony the chance to speak at his own pace away from cameras and press and the carefully crafted Stark image-- waiting led to revelations and the revelations from Tony’s mouth were intriguing.They might have been heart breaking to someone with a soul, but Tony's stories and struggles and pain were intriguing to a man like Hannibal who found inspiration in tragedy, beauty in horror, art in desecration.The desecration of Anthony Edward Stark’s soul would be art indeed.
Relationships: Hannibal Lecter/Tony Stark
Comments: 27
Kudos: 69





	Shackles

_“Can I come over?”_

The voice on the phone had been muffled, the words slurred, and while most therapists might have simply talked their client through whichever drunken crisis had occurred at two am, Hannibal Lecter was not most therapists and Tony Stark was _not_ most clients. 

“I was going to take them home.” Tony was a mess, shirt half unbuttoned, shoes scuffed and a splashed stain on his pants that smelled faintly of alcohol. He held a glass of ice in one hand and picked at a thread on the upholstered seat with the other, eyes bloodshot and mouth turned down into a frown and it was such a pity, Tony’s lips were far too pretty to grimace in such an unflattering way. 

“I was gonna take them home.” Tony rolled the glass over his forehead and Hannibal pulled his attention from the curve of the lovely mouth to the bitterness evident in Tony’s eyes. “Then somewhere between drink three and five, I realized they were smiling more at the cameras than they were smiling at me and that-- that--” 

Hannibal hadn’t said a word when Tony had shown up at his doorstep swaying and drunk, he hadn’t said a word when the brunette had half stumbled his way into the study and thrown himself down into the customary client chair and the therapist didn’t say a word now, only steepled his fingers and waited. 

Tony Stark only said what he wanted to say when he wanted to say it. Weeks of therapy with the young billionaire had shown Hannibal that even the most leading questions were dead ends if Tony didn’t want to share, that not even Obadiah Stane’s considerable and uncomfortably _overbearing_ influence could force the brunette to speak his mind. 

But waiting, allowing Tony the chance to speak at his own pace away from cameras and the press, away from the so carefully crafted image the Stark name demanded from it’s bearers-- _waiting_ led to revelations. Hannibal was usually loathe to admit a too keen interest in any of his clients, truth be told he was rather bored by the mostly plebian problems they came crying to him about. 

The revelations from Tony’s mouth were intriguing, heart breaking to someone with a soul perhaps, but _intriguing_ to a man like Hannibal who found inspiration in what most would consider tragedy, beauty in what most would consider horror, art in what others saw as desecration. 

The desecration of Anthony Edward Stark’s soul would be art indeed.

“Why don’t they see me?” Tony slumped forward in the chair and groaned. “People look at me and they don’t see _me_. Why?” 

“Because you don’t allow them to see you.” Hannibal kept his voice calm, tone professionally even. It was too soon to reveal his hand, too soon to take a step past the barely there manipulation he carved into their therapy sessions. Tony was brilliant, genius even, and too soon a move would cost Hannibal the young man’s trust. 

“You don’t allow them to see you.” He said again. “This is a careful mask of yours, Tony, one you perfected at a very young age. No one sees you because you don’t allow anyone close enough to your truth, and if you don’t allow anyone close enough to your truth, you cannot be upset when they look and only see your facade. A lonely existence to be sure, but one of your own creation.” 

“You’re speaking from experience.” Tony’s head lolled back against the back of the chair. “About facades.” 

“And as always, you are astute in your observations.” Hannibal tipped his chin slightly in acknowledgment. “Even while in a drunken state.” 

“Yeah.” Tony chuckled but it was an ugly sound and Hannibal briefly wondered what an honest laugh from the beauty would sound like. “Yeah. I’m drunk as fuck right now. But you-- you’re lonely.” 

“Achingly so.” Proper manipulation required just as much give as take, and Hannibal wasn’t above fostering a sense of camaraderie in a moment like this. Tony was too drunk to remember their conversation, but not so drunk as to forget the feeling of being seen and accepted at a vulnerable moment. An appropriate step forward in this dark little dance of theirs. “I find myself lonely at the most inconvenient times.” 

“You’ve put up walls and masks to hide yourself from the world.” Tony was staring up at the ceiling, throat bared and legs splayed, the very picture of nonchalance-- or a tempting picture of prey for a creature bent on destruction.

“And we’ve established that you do the same with your actions and your press persona.” Hannibal reminded him.

“Sure sure, but I don’t sit over there in the worlds most phallic chair and watch everyone else at their lowest, most vulnerable points.” Tony put the glass down and covered his eyes with his hands. “And don’t-- don’t look too far into my comparison of your chair to phallus, _Freud_. It’s wide at the base and narrows at the tip. I was supposed to be having sex right now, not an impromptu therapy session, you’ll have to forgive my mind still being on dicks.” 

Hannibal’s mouth tipped up at the corner in a quick, almost begrudging smile. Even drunk and surly, Tony was quick witted and funny and it had been a very long time since Hannibal had been genuinely amused by someone. 

“What uh--” Tony lurched forward again, folded his arms and tucked his chin into his chest. “Waht do you see when you look at me, Dr. Lecter? Not the-- the clothes or the way I stink like a bar -- sorry about that by the way.” he tapped his nose. “I know you have that enhanced olfactory thing, I won’t be offended if you breathe through your mouth. I stink right now.” 

“Beneath the smell of mixed drinks and cloying coed perfume, you scent of ocean water from your Malibu home, sea salt from your runs along the beach, the tang of engine oil from your tinkerings in the garage.” Another give instead of a take. “It is delightful.” 

“You’re full of shit.” Tony stated, but the tips of his ears turned red and Hannibal he’d won just then, gained a foothold in the slippery slope of Tony Stark’s trust. “What do you see when you look at me?” 

“I see a child lost with out his mother, a young man reaching for a father’s approval that will never come because death gives us no comfort and your own expectations will never allow you to reach the level of approval you think your father would give.” the doctor said slowly. “I see a brilliant mind limited by self imposed rules. A beautiful creature begging to be set free. A phoenix waiting to rise from the ashes all the while snapping shackles about his own wrist because _fear_ is a crippling force in his life.”

Tony swallowed hard and looked up, and the softness in Hannibal’s voice wasn’t planned or faked or even purposeful-- “I see a galaxy in your eyes as if the heavens are calling you home, but you have chained yourself here to Earth because you are afraid to fly.” 

“I--” another hard swallow and Tony’s fingers gripped right at the chair. “I’m not afraid to fly.” 

“Aren’t you though?” Hannibal took the moment to gather himself again, to re-shore defenses he hadn’t realized he needed. Tony had a way of insinuating himself right into Hannibal’s thoughts with no effort or intent and it was _uncomfortable_. 

“I’m not--” Tony shook his head. “No. Not to fly. I’d love to fly.”

“Would you?”

The brunette’s jaw worked as he clenched his teeth. “If I kissed you right now would you kick me out?” 

“I don’t make a habit of kicking people out from my office.” Hannibal disguised the sudden pounding of his heart with a sip at his water. “Usually I have observed and taken steps to avoid unsuitable behavior from a client before it reaches that point.” 

“That wasn’t an answer.” 

“Just because something isn’t the answer you seek, doesn’t mean it’s now an answer.” 

“Kay.” Tony nodded a few times. “Well I’m gonna kiss you.” 

“And why is that, Tony?” 

“Because you see me and no one else does.” Tony stood up in one abrupt motion as if he were afraid he’d talk himself out of it if he waited. “No one else ever does but you-- you see me.” 

Hannibal held himself very still while Tony advanced on him, held very still while the beautiful brunette bent to push their mouths together. He inhaled the scent of scotch and the faint taste of cigarettes, parted his lips obligingly when Tony’s tongue pushed sloppy at the seam of his mouth but made no attempt to kiss Tony back, no attempt to chase the velvet of soft lips or to coax a groan he knew would be like music to his ears. 

“Oh Jesus, you’re not kissing me back.” Tony wrenched away from the one sided kiss and stumbled back several steps, voice thick with self loathing. “Jesus, what am I doing?” 

“Tony--” 

“I’m going to be sick.” Tony ran for the bathroom and Hannibal closed his eyes against the sound of retching, the way Tony was sobbing into the toilet before it flushed. 

.... “You’ll stay the night.” Hannibal said when Tony came back from the bathroom. “In my guest bedroom. You’re in no state to drive and you show a marked proclivity towards self destructive behavior when you are unstable. I’d feel better if you slept here. Stay the night.” 

Tony didn’t even have the energy to protest, pliant and almost submissive as Hannibal guided him up the stairs to a well appointed guest bedroom. Pliant and almost submissive when Hannibal handed him pajamas, pliant and almost submissive when Hannibal tucked him into the thick quilts and silky sheets. 

_Submissive_ and it twisted something possessive in Hannibal’s chest as he turned the lights off and left his _project_ sleeping off what was left of the night. 

Tony slept and dreamed of chains round his wrists and feet trying him to the cliffs outside the Malibu house, dreamed of the ocean eroding and the rocks falling way beneath him, dreamed of trying to break free of the shackles but realizing he had put his own key just above his head where he couldn’t reach. 

And he screamed but no one was listening, he screamed and the shackles rattled against his bones, he screamed but the ocean drowned out the noise and no one heard. 

Tony screamed and the paparazzi's cameras snapped picture after picture, flash flash flash until the shackled cut into his skin and the blood dripped down scarlet against all the iron he’d forged to hold himself captive. 

*********

In the morning, Hannibal served Tony a breakfast sandwich, creamy mushrooms brie and pancetta layered onto a warmed croissant, sausage sliced along the edge of the plate and tempting Tony to mouth watering with the smell alone. 

“Even your breakfast is pretentious.” Tony drained an entire cup of coffee before cramming several pieces of sausage into his mouth, and Hannibal ignored the rudeness only because he garnered supreme satisfaction seeing his _project_ eating what he had so specially prepared. “Thank you. It’s delicious.” 

Hannibal inclined his head in a brief nod, and after another minute Tony spoke again-- “I’m sorry about last night. I was drunk and belligerent and terrible. Sorry.” 

And then softer, “I uh-- I don’t remember what we talked about but I feel like you were very kind to me and that’s-- that’s rare.” Tony’s hand tightened on his fork. “I don’t usually wake up feeling cared for after a night of drinking and I appreciate it. Thank you.” 

“How do you usually feel waking up after a night of drinking?” Hannibal sipped at his own coffee. “And would you like more sausage?” 

“Yeah, I’ve never had this blend before and it’s great.” Tony held his plate out hopefully. “What’s the meat? Can’t be pork.” 

“Not pork, no.” Hannibal obligingly piled more on Tony’s plate. “How do you usually feel waking up after a night of drinking?” 

“Alone.” Tony said flatly. “As if I should be ashamed of everything I’ve ever done. Cold. Embarrassed.” 

“And this morning?” 

“...I feel taken care of.” Tony crammed another bite into his mouth and the words came out garbled. “I dunno. It’s nice. I appreciate it. Thank you.” 

“It’s my pleasure.” Hannibal took another drink. “I have a favor to ask you, Tony.” 

“Sure.” 

“The next time you kiss me, please do it sober.” Hannibal didn’t even flinch when Tony choked loudly on his bite of sandwich. “I found it hard to enjoy the experience when I knew you were barely coherent and wouldn’t appreciate my efforts during the moment.” 

“Fuck my life, I kissed you.” Tony thunked his head onto the table. “Guess I should be ashamed and fucking embarrassed. Sorry.” 

“No apologies necessary.” Another slowly measured sip and Hannibal waited a beat to make sure this particular sentence carried all the necessary influence and weight to steer Tony towards a particular direction. “I found my dreams particularly pleasant last night, but I’d much rather repeat the experience when you are sober.” 

“You--” Tony’s dark eyes narrowed, but the tell tale flush spread across his cheeks. “You dreamed about me last night?” 

“What did you dream about last night, Tony?” 

“Deflecting means you are avoiding an answer I’ve already figured out.” Tony realized and Hannibal was happy to let him think it, happy to _give_ so long as the beautiful brunette saw it as a win. 

Tony’s self conscious smile was worth the _give_ , a truly pretty thing that lit up his dark eyes with stars and Hannibal took it, stored it in his mind and heart for use later. 

_Yes_ , Hannibal thought to himself. _The desecration of this soul would be_ art _._

***********

That night Obadiah was cranky, snapping at Tony and disappointed after his night spent binge drinking, angry about the tabloids, upset Tony hadn’t finished any more work on the Jericho, irritated that Tony kept smiling sort of secretly and wouldn’t share why. 

“I think another session with Dr. Lecter is necessary.” Obadiah decided. “We will get to the bottom of this behavior or so help me God....” 

...that night Tony dreamed about shackles again, about being chained to the rocks and cringing away from the flash of cameras. But this time when he looked for his key he found Obadiah tightening the manacles at his wrists and feet and up there above him framed against the sky and tinted _red_ from the setting sun--

\--Hannibal holding his key. 

_Set me free._

_*************_

_Fic Notes:_

_I am OBSESSED with the idea of Hannibal/Tony (murderiron!). I have been wanting to write a Dark!Tony for a while but couldn't seem to find the right bend to the dynamic with any established Marvel character and when I discovered (literally years late to the party) Hannibal, I knew this would be perfect._

_Idk if this will actually have more or not but I think the potential for Villain!Tony with Hannibal subtly egging him on is so interesting???_


End file.
